GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
   My staff of faith to walk upon, 
My scrip of joy, immortal diet, 
   My bottle of salvation, 
My gown of glory, hope's true gage; 
And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. 

Blood must be my body's balmer; 
   No other balm will there be given: 
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, 
   Travelleth towards the land of heaven; 
Over the silver mountains, 
Where spring the nectar fountains; 
   There will I kiss 
   The bowl of bliss; 
And drink mine everlasting fill 
Upon every milken hill. 
My soul will be a-dry before; 
But, after, it will thirst no more.